SON OF EROS
by cupcakeriot
Summary: Despite being a creature with dominion over love, Jasper is cynical in all matters of the heart, a reluctant winner of a second chance of life, and miserable beyond measure. And then, there's Alice, who makes Jasper – confused. What's a Son of Eros to do when love becomes a matter of Fate? WINNER OF HOST'S CHOICE AND CUPID'S ARROW AWARDS IN THE 2016 STRAIGHT THRU THE HEART CONTEST
**Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight or any of the mythology or the concept of wrist tattoos. Full disclosure, I was in an advanced philosophy class when I wrote this, so if it comes off contemplative then, well, I guess I did it right. I** ** _was_** **trying to write about the meaning of love, if love exists, how we recognize it, etc...Fiction is the vehicle of my philosophy.**

 **SON OF EROS** was previously entered in the Straight Thru the Heart Contest (2016) and was the winner of the Host's Choice Award _and_ the Cupid's Arrow Award.

* * *

 **Son of Eros**

 **I.**

Eros is amused. This is not rare.

"Him, then? _This_ one? This bloodied, beaten, betrayed creature?"

Eros laughs at his lover, a fond sound. He is entertained by her poleaxed expression, by the disbelief in her voice. Enchanted, even, by her confusion, for even her confusion is lovely. "Quite the prime candidate, is he not? A warrior, which I like. Blond, which I like. Handsome, which I like."

Aphrodite shrugs with a frown, circling the poor creature who lay dead at her feet, the sweep of her silken dress trailing across dirt and blood and other stains of war. "Yes, he does remind me of _someone_ ," she says pointedly. "But what is he to do?"

"Humanity is growing very rapidly," Eros points out. "The Fated need a certain kind of attention, as you are well aware. Assistance would be welcome."

"Yes," Aphrodite agrees again, with a slow nod, silvery eyes turning to Eros with her brows crinkled. "But _why_ him? He is physically perfect, I see that. Desirable. Youthful. A vision once you're done, I'm sure…Yet that is not why you chose him."

"No, it is not."

Aphrodite reaches for Eros, beseeching. " _Why_ him?"

Eros smiles, holding her lovely hands. "His love was true," he says simply. Then, bursting with purity of power, silver light layered in his palm, he reaches out to touch the warrior –

And thus Fate is righted.

* * *

 **II.**

The first time he uses the arrows tattooed onto the thin, vulnerable skin of his wrists – _he hates them, he hates this half-life_ – Jasper is still very bitter about the world he's found himself in. Angry. Hostile. Reluctant and abjectly enraged that _he_ should be forced to perform these tasks of Fate when his own Fate had been so very tragic.

The couple is young, as most of the charges of Fate are; young, happy, and completely unaware that the other existed. Some of the Fated are different, of course. Some pine for each other; some are enemies; some are separated by age or wealth or politics; some are the dearest of friends; some are dying. But in this they are all the same. In this – this _wretched_ , cursed aberration of humanity – they are all the same.

They all are Fated to the each other.

And Jasper is the force that brings them together, with the tattoos on his wrists and a careful, steady aim. He shoots them with arrows they neither see nor feel, and then he watches as they find each other.

He loathes it.

But he had been chosen for this by Eros himself, and as there are no other options – Jasper, it seems, _cannot die_ – he is left with nothing but these tasks assigned by Fate on one day each damned year.

Oh, but how Jasper hates and will always hate the Day of Eros – that horrible Saint Valentine's Day.

* * *

 **III.**

Jasper fills his very long existence with knowledge. After all, when humanity is ensnared in war and disease and famish, they always seem to strive for knowledge. It is never-ending and so is Jasper.

So he learns. He moves across the globe, uses magic to hide the age from his body so he can remain in one place longer, and endures countless years of schooling and higher education, obtaining degree after degree simply because he can – and because there is little else for him to do, aside from that one despicable day each year.

At the very least, he is able to maintain his sanity.

Philosophy classes, however, seem to seek to dismantle that sanity no matter the lecturer or subject – perhaps because the very nature of philosophy forces Jasper to think of the things he'd rather ignore. Nevertheless, he once again finds himself in the middle of a lecture hall, a small class room of circled desks and one professor with a protruding belly.

Jasper eyes the board, sighs, and braces himself for the worst.

"Love. Is it fact or fiction? That is the question we will be pondering, class, on this auspicious morn of Valentine's Day. Philosophers had much to say about many things, including happiness, death, and the existence of a creator. But they also had much to say about other aspects of being that humanity often takes for granted. Love is one of those topics. In Plato's _Symposium_ , there is an extensive passage on the function of same-sex relationships and what those relationships might mean to love, in general. Does anyone have any concrete beliefs about love?"

Jasper did - and in fact, Jasper had a lot of opinions on a lot of things, and while usually he would have remained silent, keen to remain hidden in plain sight, _this_ topic plucked a sensitive nerve. He heard himself speaking before he could think twice. "Love doesn't actually exist. Humanity isn't altruistic enough to have real love, only imitations of it."

"Sounds like a broken heart to me," someone scoffs from across the room, a cascade of tittering following the comment that Professor Greene is swift to ignore in favor of tapping his chin, silently observing the blooming discussion now that he had introduced the topic.

"Not a broken heart," Jasper counters quietly, careful to keep his hands hidden beneath the table, lest he give any evidence of his own experiences with _love_ away. Though, dressed in his usual long-sleeved thermal shirt with his thumbs pressed through the holes in the sleeves, there was very little risk of _that_ happening.

Still, he was cautious. Always cautious.

Jasper sighs, catching the probing gaze of Professor Greene, who is clearly prompting him to continue; he has the attention of the class, at least, which is a change from previous weeks in this course. Usually, everyone is clamoring to be heard and Jasper is more than content to take detailed notes, flipping a pen between his ink-stained fingers.

Compelled to continue, Jasper shakes loose blond curls out of his eyes, jaw squared. "Romeo and Juliet really had the right of it, you know? Or maybe Shakespeare did. All that tragedy is exactly what love is about. It's this _thing_ that happens, this life-long obsession that begins the second we get over that Oedipus-Electra Complex thing. I mean, people will go on and on about how love is different from sex, but really, we're biologically predisposed to seek sexual contact and, by extension, love in order to propagate the species. So of course it hurts, of course it's tragic. How can it not be? Orgasms are only good for a minute, and even then, the after-glow is usually ruined because someone has somewhere to be."

The same girl from before, mousy with a rather severe turn of her mouth, speaks up, tone critical and more than a little terse. Reprimanding, even. "That's really cynical, though, isn't it? Love is about more than sex. Look at _asexuals_ , for example. They seem perfectly fine attaining love without the physical aspect."

"Are you asexual?" Jasper asks dryly, already aware of the answer. Always aware.

"Well, no."

"Then I don't think it's fair to speak for an entire sexual orientation when _you_ are not of that particular persuasion. I mean, that's like me trying to tell you how it is to be a woman, even though I am a man with no experience in being a woman. How could I know the other side of the coin? How could _you_ know what an asexual person is thinking without even being asexual?"

"Interesting perspectives," Professor Greene cuts in before the girl can counter, likely spotting the same tinge of righteousness steaming from her ears as Jasper had - though, of course, he could spot that righteousness in another, more accurate way. "Any counters to the ontological argument? Does love exist? And how do we know?"

Jasper sits back, crossing his arms over his wiry chest as he listens to the redirected discussion, lips slanted into a familiar frown. Gradually, he feels his muscles tighten as the discussion grows more impassioned and as the people around him become more emotive. He grits his teeth, struggling to remain impassive and aloof - struggling to appear normal - and by the time the class is over nearly an hour later, his jaw is aching so badly that he waits for the classroom to empty before working it loose.

Professor Greene notices him, moving to perch on one of the empty desks. "You know, Mr. Whitlock, it isn't very often that a sophomore finds himself in my class," he begins with a touch of _amusement_. "Less often that any student presents such well-thought essays. I have enjoyed your papers this semester. It was rather enlightening to observe the discussion this class, wouldn't you agree?"

Jasper stands, turning his eyes away. He isn't sure what color they would be, all things considered. "Sure," he says noncommittally, sensing _exactly_ where this conversation would be going and internally lamenting that he kept quiet in classes for a _reason_.

"Love is such a wondrous, ponderous thing, indeed."

"I guess," Jasper says, settling his brown leather messenger bag over his shoulder and edging toward the exit.

Professor Greene peers over his glasses, wispy white brows raised high in expectation. "I've heard love can be healing, Mr. Whitlock."

 _Or damning_.

Jasper licks his lips, covertly checking his sleeves, thumb-holes firmly in place. Good. "I have plans, Professor," he says after a moment of awkward silence.

Professor Greene beams, waving Jasper off with a hearty chuckle. "Of course you do, lad. Today is the day of plans."

It isn't until Jasper is shuffling through the corridors of Lockhart Hall, head down to avoid eye-contact, mentally cringing at the emotions threatening to steamroll him into delirious oblivion, that Jasper allows himself one irritable thought:

 _I, unfortunately, know love by its true nature. And it sucks._

* * *

 **IV.**

Jasper isn't originally from America. Jasper isn't even originally from _this century_.

A long time ago, Jasper had been a soldier fighting in a war with no end for a cause that seemed, at the time, worthy of his sacrifice. In that time, it was expected of second sons to do what the first sons could not: fight for the politics of the family and die, if necessary. Jasper was brought up to believe that his destiny in life was a glorious, noble one, and had trained with the ever-tireless notion that he had a _purpose_.

Of course, then he fell in love.

It was a mistake.

He doesn't think her name - _she isn't worth naming_ \- but he knows how the story goes, and how foolish he once had been. Though he was a second son, his family was very affluent, which made Jasper - _his name was not Jasper, then_ \- a prime target. Too naïve, he'd fallen deeply in love with a horrid creature who used him, who warped his upbringing to make him want to die for _her_ instead of dying for the _cause_. And he had died, unknowingly sacrificed by the daughter of his enemy and unknowingly damning his legion to the same bloody fate.

Death was not the end.

* * *

 **V.**

It had been explained to him - once, when he woke naked and glowing preternaturally, and again after he had torn the skin from his wrists, _horrifying_ opalescent crimson beneath his nails - that his love for that wretched woman bought him a second chance to life.

" _Your love was true_ ," he'd been told.

 _"I wish it wasn't_ ," he'd replied, staring at the new strangeness of his blood, at the representation of his new half-life that he didn't want. The second chance he never asked for and didn't know how to comprehend.

" _Yet it was true, and so is this_."

* * *

 **VI.**

Jasper isn't human, not anymore. He is - above humanity, above the creatures humanity fears, a class of being better assigned to mythological tale than actual existence. It is lonely, being what he is, though he is not alone. There are others like him, but also not like him. None are as tortured by life as Jasper.

He is ensnared by his ruthless, unforgiving consciousness, overwhelmed by the gifts bestowed upon him. And after centuries, his chance at a second life has worn away until Jasper is a mere fragment of what he could have been, had he embraced his second chance the way he should have. He is more human now than he ever was, save perhaps for that time when he _was_ still human.

He could die.

Jasper thinks perhaps he should. He is so very tired.

There is a girl, a ballerina, who lives in his building. A tiny wisp of a thing, a graceful creature of bird-bones and humming notes that Jasper can hear every morning as he readies himself for the day or counting her warm-up routine aloud, voice always bell-light.

Sometimes, she brings him scones and muffins and tarts from the bakery where she works, usually on holidays. Last Christmas, she tied coffee cake in a red bow presented on a silver platter, invited herself into his apartment for coffee, and commiserated on not spending the holiday with her family - all while Jasper kept quiet, internally noting that the pagans were the only ones celebrating anything remotely resembling Christmas when he still had a living family.

Her name is Alice.

When he thinks of her, Jasper does not feel so tired.

And he doesn't know what to make of that.

* * *

 **VII.**

Jasper is allowed to hide for three-hundred and sixty-four days a year. He is allowed to pretend that he is completely human, that he is a completely average college student majoring in a perfectly useless degree, and that there is nothing extraordinary about him in the slightest.

The remaining day is his own sort of personal Hell. Valentine's Day and, before that, the Day of Eros, when those like Jasper had dominion over the Earth and a duty to perform as they played messenger-boys of Fate.

The day is inescapable and so it is of no surprise that Jasper spots his counterpart across the crowd of the bar where perpetual bachelors like Garrett - a friend from when Jasper was masking his age to look like he was in high school back in Boston - chose to spend their time on Valentine's Day. Jasper likes bars, even enjoys the way that alcohol dulls the emotions of those around him. It's too bad alcohol has no effect on _him_. Garrett, however, is more than a bit sloshed and Jasper, a loyal, if not apathetic wingman, had been refilling his shot glass with water for the last half-hour while Garrett dropped lines to anything with a pulse.

Rosalie does not looked pleased as she pushes her way between the tightly-packed bodies of the bar. But then, Rosalie never looks pleased.

She hates this life almost as much as Jasper does. All Daughters of Aphrodite are tragic - each with a painful history and an attack that gave them death and a second life - and Jasper is always careful to not treat her any differently than he would anyone else, though he is unfortunately aware of each detail in her story. For Rosalie, a Daughter for less than fifty years, her tragedy is still new and she holds onto that anger with a vice grip.

 _That's probably why we get along so well._

Rosalie approaches him with a glint of malice in her silvery-blue eyes, which are thankfully dulled by the poor lighting in the bar. "You're _late_ ," she hisses by way of greeting.

"It's not considered late if I never intended to attend my duties," he says to her, ever-mindful to keep his voice down, aware of the lustful eyes trained on Rosalie's rather generous curves.

"Jasper."

"Rose."

She slaps his arm. _"You know_ I hate that nickname!"

Jasper quirks a brow. "And _you_ know I hate this day," he drawls. "We're even."

Rosalie crosses her arms, a haughty tilt to her chin. "You know we're not," she says. "They're asking for you and sent _me_. Don't get us in any more trouble."

Jasper curses under his breath and pats Garrett on the shoulder as he leaves with Rosalie in tow, ignoring Garrett's slurred, " _Way to gooooo, Jazzy_."

His mind is preoccupied. If _They_ wanted to speak to him directly, then Jasper had a sinking suspicion that his night was about to become very, very complicated.

Jasper was right.

 _Complicated_ is an accurate description.

 _So is life-changing_.

* * *

 **VIII.**

Eros and Aphrodite.

Each a divinity devoted to love and sex and lust - and each the warden to their very own set of look-a-like prisoners. Like the Goddess, each Daughter of Aphrodite is lusciously curved, silken of skin and golden of hair, a walking aphrodisiac of scent and sight with the single task of inspiring lust in their targets in order to tie the strings of Fate together through romance. And like the God, each Son of Eros is a lithe, finely-chiseled epitome of masculine beauty, angular beings with light hair and impeccable aim, and a blood-deep tattoo of arrows circling his wrist.

The Sons and Daughters are tokens. They are meant to be tokens.

Jasper loathes being a token and Eros _knows_ this.

Eros does not care.

"You have a special assignment," Eros says in a low, velvety baritone, leaning lazily against the throne of Aphrodite, perfectly content to rest at the feet of a Goddess. "There is a girl who is about to miss her chance with Fate. You know her."

Jasper grits his teeth. There is only _one_ girl that he knows, aside from Rosalie, who is silent at his side. "Alice."

"Indeed," Aphrodite sighs, a sensuous sound of female enchantment, one that makes Eros grin widely as she turns her silvery gaze to Rosalie. "You are to help him. I believe this assignment will be most…enlightening."

 _Enlightening_.

Rosalie and Jasper wait until they exit the presence of their masters to exchange a significant look. It isn't until they return to Earth, appearing beneath a streetlight on a quiet street near the campus of Jasper's college that either dare to speak, skin slowly losing the preternatural glow once gravity has grounded them.

"Something very strange is going to happen," Rosalie says.

"Dangerous," Jasper corrects with quiet hostility, shoving his hands in his pockets, scowl etched onto his face as he and Rosalie trudge in the direction that Fate is urging them toward.

 _Something is going to happen to Alice_.

* * *

 **IX.**

Alice is not the first human Jasper has befriended, but she is certainly the only one who managed to wiggle beneath his skin. He thinks it is perhaps because she reminds him of when he was human, of when he used to watch the girls dance around the fires during feasts and celebrations, something otherworldly in the way they would twirl on their toes and fling their arms to the sky.

Uninhibited. That is Alice. She laughs without care, speaks without thought. Bold. Bright. Undoubtedly beautiful, though unconventionally. With skin as pale and unblemished as snow and hair like a raven's wing cropped close to her head, her eyes seem much larger, made all the more astonishing by the strange color; a deep blue-green with flecks of golden-brown around the center, as if the oceans were rushing to meet the earth.

A distant part of Jasper is fascinated by her humanity, a part of himself he thought lost very long ago. He thinks her enchanting and is entertained by her vibrant personality.

But he has seen more than one part of Alice and knows that behind the brightness is something haunted, something dark and decaying.

When she dances - which he has seen, once in his living room and once in the holiday pageant she invited him to out of neighborly curtsey - Alice is someone else entirely. Someone new who Jasper thinks is the truest form of Alice, soul laced with pain and resolution in equal turns.

She dances like her spirit is on fire.

She dances _like_ the flames from Jasper's past.

* * *

 **X.**

"Who is this girl?" Rosalie asks as she and Jasper follow shadows across the darkened campus, sunset long past but night not fully embraced.

Dusk. Twilight.

The beginning of the end. Or the end of the beginning.

Jasper looks at Rosalie sharply, riled by her tone, raw from his racing thoughts. "Just a girl."

It feels like a lie on his tongue.

* * *

 **XI.**

 _A knocking on his door draws Jasper from the cusp of sleep and he rises, uncaring of his bare chest as he stumbles through the living room. He supposes that Garrett is at his door, probably drunk off his ass, given the hour._

 _It's Alice._

 _Shivering in a delicate silk robe of the deepest plum, Alice smiles up at him shakily, pot of tea in one hand and a bag of fresh almond biscotti in the other. She flinches when thunder cracks overhead, a summer storm of warm rain and electricity._

 _Jasper blinks, then steps to the side._

 _Alice scurries in, already launching into her explanation as she sets the tea and biscotti on his coffee table and hurries to his kitchen to rummage for the chipped mugs he has in the cupboard. "I'm so, so sorry, but it's the storm, you know? Maybe you don't know. You don't seem the type to be afraid of a little thunder, but I am. It's silly, I know it's silly, but ever since I was a kid…And usually it's fine, but I can't find The Sound of Music anywhere in my apartment even though I know I had it during the last storm, and I'm afraid I've just, like, conditioned myself to be unable to cope unless Maria is singing about her favorite things, you know? Do you take milk in your tea…?"_

 _Jasper flops onto his couch, leaning his head against the back cushion as Alice continues to prattle nervously, silently taking the offered tea - Earl Grey, of all things - and biscotti dipped in dark chocolate. He nods occasionally, but Alice doesn't require any input to continue speaking._

 _He doesn't mind the sound of her voice. It's soothing._

 _So soothing, in fact, that Jasper is nearly lulled to sleep by it after finishing the tea and biscotti that he is jolted awake by Alice's abrupt shriek, thunder loud enough to rattle his walls. He sits up, on edge, and reaches out to her -_

 _Only to abort half-way, suddenly aware that the marks are on display._

 _And Alice, clutching her hands to her chest, biscotti dropped between them on the couch, notices the movement, eyes darting to his wrist and widening. Her mouth drops open in surprise. Before Jasper can stop her, Alice's tiny fingers have encircled his wrist, dragging him closer to her so she can have a better look at the very marks that make Jasper dread his existence._

 _Only, when Alice is looking at them and running her fingers delicately over the bold slashing design and the scars beneath the colorful tattoo, he doesn't dread his life so much._

 _And - he can feel Alice's curiosity and appreciation, which twists sharply behind his sternum._

 _Thoughtlessly, Jasper pulls Alice toward him, meeting her lips with his own, swallowing her gasp in a fit of passion that serves to lock the girl in his arms, tight against his body._

She tastes like tea _, he thinks deliriously, drowning in the sensations of the contact and the loop of emotions Alice is unconsciously sending to him. Jasper allows himself to be led by her reactions, learning what she likes and what drives her wild. He almost doesn't realize that his lips are on her throat, her gasping breaths soft in his ears as he sinks into her willing body - wet, warm, tight beyond imagination, and so perfect it almost hurts._

 _They join bodies with thunder as a soundtrack and Jasper can't remember a time he was ever miserable because -_

 _Because Alice feels like salvation_.

* * *

 **XII.**

"If she were just a girl," Rosalie counters, watching Jasper pace in the alley near his building. "Then I think they might have assigned someone else to this task. Or at least _I_ wouldn't be here."

He says nothing. Jasper thinks his silence says more than his words ever could.

" _I_ think it's personal," Rosalie muses. "Something to do with you, maybe. If she were just a girl, then you could handle this by yourself. But I have to be here for some reason. To ensure you do what Fate bids, perhaps?"

Jaw clenched tighter, Jasper turns on his heel, peering out of the alley impatiently. He is on edge.

It's obvious and Rosalie is right. This _is_ personal.

But he can't figure out why. Fate does not play with the strings of the Daughters and Sons; whatever _this_ is must surely be unprecedented.

Which meant that it was truly dangerous.

* * *

 **XIII.**

 _He has her again nearly a month later, this time in a bed with her limber body writhing beneath his, her fingernails sharp on his shoulders, sweat slick between their bodies._

 _Jasper stares at where they are joined in fascination. He has not felt this for centuries, perhaps longer, but he is certain that nobody could be more perfect than Alice. She fits around him as if by design, made perfect for him._

 _Sweet, like honey, and wild, alive and reactive. Pushing and pulling and crying out for more, harder, Jasper. He is obliging. He is lost._

 _He kisses her soundly, until the only air she breathes is the air from his own lungs._

 _He consumes and is consumed._

 _He does not know what to do._

* * *

 **XIV.**

Jasper, of course, spots Alice before Rosalie does. He is tuned into her presence and it is confusing - it has been confusing and a point of contention within himself. He should _not_ feel as he feels, if what he feels is what he thinks it is.

He is a Son of Eros, now. And though he might have dominion over love, though he might be the messenger-boy of Fate, he is _not_ a being capable of love. He has not been a being capable of love since his death.

Only, he doubts this is true as he watches Alice cross the street, spinning on her toes to music only she can hear, scarf twirling around her neck in graceful, lacy arc. So enraptured by the evidence of her spirit - so confounded by the conflict he feels - he does not notice the car racing around the corner until Rosalie's nails dig into his arm.

And then it is too late.

Tires squeal. A thud. Her hand, limp on the dirty concrete.

His own voice _\- Alice_! - as he races toward her, skinning his knees at her side, horrified and broken beyond measure.

She bleeds.

He doesn't know what to do.

He doesn't know what he feels.

 _Alice is bleeding_.

"Jasper."

His hands are shaking as he touches Alice's cooling skin, searching for a pulse that is not there, smearing crimson across the curve of cheek that once blushed. Sooty lashes and a partially opened mouth. No movement.

Jasper wants to heave, but he cannot. The shattering behind his ribs is all consuming-

"Jasper," Rosalie hisses, snapping her fingers in front of his face. "You can save her."

He shakes his head, hands still ghosting over Alice's body. "No. I can't. That's not what we do. That's not…That's not what we…"

Rosalie slaps him, then grips his chin, forcing him to look at her, silver eyes blazing. "Jasper, listen to me. You can save her. You're not like us, somehow. Why else would we be here? Look around you! The street is empty! There's nobody here for a reason! This _is Fated_. Save her."

Jasper blinks, collecting his thoughts.

Rosalie is right about the scene, at the very least. They, being what they are, are the only ones present for a _reason_ , a sure design by Fate and obviously sanctioned by at least one of their masters. They are supposed to be here and Alice was Fated to _this_.

But Jasper isn't different from the other Sons, is he? He was dragged unwillingly into this life, just like them. He has the same gifts of empathy, just as they do. But he does not believe in love. Is that the difference? He had never moved beyond his death, had remained unchanged for thousands of years. Had he not argued against the existence of love not twelve hours earlier?

He looks down at Alice, crumpled and quiet and bleeding.

He _hurts_.

Oh, Eros, but is _this_ what love is supposed to be? And could he love without realizing it? This girl? He'd once thought her salvation, had deemed her perfect, had enjoyed her company and idiosyncrasies, and had looked forward to hearing her speak and seeing the way her eyes lit up when she smiled. He'd enjoyed the pleasures of her body, cherished those moments, even.

And this - this _feeling_ \- was different from the feeling that led to his death. Because he wasn't human, anymore? He may have cynically stated that humans were not altruistic enough to truly love, but that certainly wasn't true. _He'd_ loved true enough to gain a second chance.

Was the same true for Alice?

Fighting back the burning behind his eyes, Jasper leans down, close enough to catch the scent of vanilla and almonds and tea, close enough to brush his lips with Alice's.

He thinks, _I love you_.

He kisses her, praying that Rosalie is right and that Fate is right and that he is a _different_ Son of Eros and that his love - and it _is_ love - for Alice is true enough to bring her back.

Jasper pulls back a fraction, strokes her cheek gently, and waits.

Breathless.

He is sure that he will die alongside Alice, the burning is so pervasive, so sharp and searing in his chest. Burning brighter and sharper, stinging and narrowing and traveling down his arms, to his tattoos -

Rosalie gasps.

Jasper can see why and he is just as startled. The tattoos on his wrists are glowing, aching, burning, bright silver in the middle of the street, the light sinking into Alice at an alarming rate. He's never seen anything like it, never heard anything about _this_ before -

Alice gasps, her back arching beneath the onslaught of silver light, her eyes shooting open, just as silver as Jasper's, but somehow more beautiful. She looks at him, panting, grasping his hands as blood seeps back into her body, as her body is _fixed_ by - by the strength of Jasper's love for _her_ -

"I love you," he says, urgent. "I have loved you, I think for a long while. And I am not ready to let you leave me, Alice."

"Jasper?"

He kisses her forehead, clutches her close to his chest, protectively and possessively. "It's difficult to explain," he murmurs against her warm skin, feeling hollowed from the inside out. "But I promise you, beloved, that our time is not over yet."

Alice looks up at him dreamily, strokes an errant curl from his face. "I knew you loved me. I _knew_ it."

And thus sweet Alice becomes something new altogether, a Lover of the Son of Eros.

Just as Fate demanded.

* * *

 **XV.**

Watching from above, Aphrodite runs her hands through the soft curls atop Eros' head. "Why him?"

Eros smiles, turning his face up to kiss the palm of his Goddess. "He's paid his dues. All of our children will have this opportunity, eventually. Fate is never-ending, my love, as you well know."

"And does he know he was the first of your Sons?"

Her lover shrugs, looking down through the clouds of their heavenly realm to watch his First Son love his soulmate as surely as he was meant to, as surely as Fate would have it. "I suspect it doesn't matter, now, though I'm certain he'll figure it out when other gifts begin to manifest. Perhaps he will notice _her_ gifts before his own. We shall see."

Aphrodite hums and smiles. "And shall you be possessing any other professors, my darling cupid?"

Eros smirks. "Well, _Professor Greene_ was right, wasn't he? Love is healing."

"So I've heard."

* * *

 **THE END**

 **(...maybe...)**


End file.
